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Poetry by Matthew Herrle 

Matt lives in Pittsburgh.


© 2002/2003  Matthew Herrle





This symbol of "liberty"
and necessity
is so small
so light
yet so impenetrable
to the press of firm fingers

So elegantly crafted,
this small Dime signifies much
to me, it twirls
it jingles,
it dances
it buys only in inches

it circulates,
it flips,
you lose.



The Body Composer

Rolling, rolling, rolling
A ball of clay
Sun, sand

And the clouds get thicker
And the forests get denser
And the woman is not so far away

We sing to the composer
Salute Him, and grace him
And, for a time, on a day like today
We recall wisdom, and purpose
And recognize,
We're only clay.




When the sea rolls its eyes
at the horizon of the skies
Time will suffer no man
doubtless the fool
who believes in the moon
only when it shines full

So forgive this great tide
that washes us aside
There's no place like home
Restless, we're tools
that toil past noon
past life, past our souls

So stay beached on a promise
wet toes waiting wonder
In hopes of collapse
of drowning
of slumber,
of course,
of the sound of the noon bell
bringing us back under.
To home in a casket
To work. we've relaxed.

No doubt this fool
snacks daydreams at noon.
The Polaroid fantasy
has ended too soon.


Blood Sun

Folks that talk of a blood moon rising,
Should be reminded
That the end is not at hand
Until the Blood Son has come.

(see more)





All work is property of Matthew Herrle  © 2002/2003.



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